The Devil and the Dark Water

78

Sara placed Henri’s lifeless hand on his chest.

This was the carpenter’s mate who’d first told her about Bosey when they boarded. A piece of exploding hull had smashed into his chest, crushing everything inside. He’d drawn breath long enough to be placed in a yawl and brought to the island by his mates, but there was no healing this sort of injury. The best she could do was offer comfort, as she had to Bosey on the docks.

Getting to her feet, Sara wiped away the pebbles that had collected on her skirt and stared around the cave, sorrow opening a hole in her heart. Nearly everybody who’d been brought here had died. Those few who survived wailed in agony, begging for their loved ones. Some would die soon, others would linger. Neither had anything to do with Sara, who’d accomplished everything she could with what she had available.

God had His own plans for these people. She could only pray they were merciful. After everything they’d been through, they deserved that much, at least.

Unable to bear the suffering any longer, she stepped into the grey rain and across the shoal to the water’s edge, standing just beyond the reaching fingers of surf. Behind her, above the ridge, the trees rustled, bringing a shiver of dread.

This was Old Tom’s island, and it had brought them here for some terrible purpose. Whatever its secret, it was likely waiting for them in that jungle, and yet Arent had disappeared inside as if taking himself to the market.

She’d never met a braver man. Not that he’d accepted her compliment. There wasn’t courage in doing what was necessary, he’d said.

She sighed. It wasn’t going to be easy loving a man like that.

Kneeling down, Sara washed her hands in the sea and stared at the distant wreck of the Saardam. The huge crack down the middle had widened, exposing the cargo hold within. Planks were tumbling from its sides into the water and seabirds whirled above it, like crows circling a dead cow.

A yawl was returning filled with casks of treasure. They’d been bringing them over for hours, loading them in a pile under the treeline, a little further down from the other supplies. Even from here she could see the chalices and chains, golden plates, jewels and jewellery. Surely, this was the secret cargo her husband had instructed Reynier van Schooten to bring aboard quietly.

Van Schooten, she remembered with a start.

She hadn’t seen the chief merchant since the mutiny. He hadn’t been in the cave, or on the lifeboat. She looked along the coast anxiously, but the bodies had been piled under a sheet, awaiting burial. Every so often, the ocean would deliver fresh dead, the push and pull of the surf giving their limbs a strange, twitching life. No doubt Van Schooten would wash up eventually.

Sara watched the musketeers drag the yawl up the beach and unload a dozen crates on to the beach, carelessly spilling gold coins, ornate plates, necklaces, diamonds and rubies. The musketeers laughed and left them there. Who would bother stealing them, they jested.

Grunting, they picked up a crate and carried it towards the camp, leaving the rest unguarded.

Sara stared at the piled-high treasure.

This was the same sort of treasure Vos had been trying to hide when Arent confronted him. The chamberlain must have stolen it from her husband – that’s why he admitted to been a thief when accused, even though he hadn’t stolen The Folly.

But why did her husband have it? He was a merchant. He traded spices for gold. He didn’t barter for chalices and plates, no matter how valuable they were.

Sara walked over and examined the pile. Picking up plates and cups, she inspected them for markings. Sure enough, she found the crest of the Dijksma family, just as she had on the objects Vos had stolen.

But there were more crests among them.

Tugging an ornate sword from its sheath, she discovered the crest of a lion holding a sword and arrows, a banner flying overhead proclaiming Honor et Ars in Latin.

‘Honour and cunning,’ she muttered. This was the herald of the de Haviland family. Surely, it was no coincidence Emily de Haviland had been aboard the Saardam.

She kept digging, finding coats of arms belonging to the Van de Ceulens and the Bos family. These were all families Pieter Fletcher had saved from Old Tom’s evil.

Why would her husband have this? He’d admitted to summoning Old Tom – could this have been why? To rob them?

Not rob, she realised with a flash of insight. That wasn’t her husband’s way. What if he’d done to these families what he’d done to her father, Cornelius Vos and countless others over the course of his life. Ruin them, belittle them, then leave them alive to suffer their fall.

According to the daemonologica, these families had all been traders, merchants and shipbuilders. People her husband would have needed or been in competition with while he was building his business thirty years ago. What if he’d summoned Old Tom and set it loose on them?

Pieter Fletcher had thwarted the scheme, then her husband had Old Tom kill him in revenge.

Except …

A memory grew nails and began scratching at her. The first time she’d seen the picture of Pieter Fletcher in Creesjie’s cabin, she’d been bothered by it. He’d been resplendent in his beautiful clothes, standing in front of their manor house. He’d even been able to afford Creesjie, the natural consort of kings.

In contrast, Sander Kers had been dressed in rags and, by his own admission, he’d had to beg his congregation for alms to board the Saardam.

Witchfinding wasn’t a profession you grew rich doing. Yet, somehow, Pieter Fletcher had.

Creesjie was helping Isabel gather firewood when Sara caught up with her. Sara was breathless, and had to take a minute before asking her question.

‘Did Pieter …’ she panted. ‘… Was he … nobility? Did he come from money?’

Creesjie laughed grimly. ‘Witchfinders don’t come from money,’ she said. ‘It was a reward for his good works from the families he saved.’

No, it wasn’t, Sara thought. Rewards were given willingly. The governor general had set Old Tom loose on these families, destroying the reputations of his competition, and blackmailing those who could be useful to him. Then, when they’d agreed to his terms, he’d dispatched Pieter Fletcher to ‘banish’ Old Tom and convince everybody the demon was really gone.

But her husband left his enemies alive. He always did. He enjoyed watching them suffer.

And one of them had found him.

When Sara had found the book in Viscountess Dalvhain’s cabin, she’d believed it was a mockery of the daemonologica, but what if it had actually been a true account of what had happened all those years ago. Old Tom had destroyed the de Havilands, leaving only Emily alive. She’d grown up seeking revenge. She would have witnessed Pieter Fletcher’s actions first-hand and dedicated herself to tracking him down. She had found him in Amsterdam, married to Creesjie and father to two boys. Somehow, he’d recognised her and fled, but she’d followed him to Lille. She’d tortured him, uncovering his conspirators. That would have led her to Sander Kers and the governor general.

No wonder her husband never took off that damn breastplate. No wonder he’d hidden himself away in Batavia, surrounded by high walls and guards.

How did you kill a man that well protected? By luring him out, she thought.

The predikant had received the fake letter from Pieter Fletcher two years ago, instructing him to sail for the city. Her husband had received the fake ascension order from Arent’s grandfather a month before they boarded the Saardam.

‘Laxagarr is Nornish for trap,’ she muttered, eyeing the wreck again.

Emily had marked the sail so Sara’s husband would know his past had found him. She had left the anagram and the book so he’d know exactly who was to blame. Old Tom brought suffering, and Emily had ensured Jan Haan suffered for what he’d done.

Sara darted on to the shoal, searching desperately for Arent. The ideas were so big her head felt like it would collapse under the weight.

She had to tell him what she suspected.

He was walking down the beach, casting frantic glances around. Upon seeing her, relief showed on his face.

They charged towards each other, Sara taking hold of Arent’s arms.

‘I know why this is happening,’ she said frantically.

His eyes went wide. ‘Good, because I know who’s doing it.’